Love Is Not Poetic
It seems most love stories with boys are poetic.
The way you fall, you love, and then you lose.
Even to the end, it seems as carefully written as a Greek tragedy.
But with you?
The way it was with you was brutal, not poetic.
There is nothing poetic about screaming into a cotton pillow in the silence of night, or finding comfort in a dull knifes edge, or crying until you can no longer see and the windows we call eyes are nothing but dull red-rubbed holes in my blank face.
There is nothing poetic about not being able to move on, about not being able to trust anyone- including myself- laying wide awake night after night, fully aware of the empty cold bedsheet around me.
There is nothing poetic about losing yourself to someone whose love was everything but poetic.
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